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Posted by in Poems on Aug 11, 2013

He waits in the desert for the healer,

wings wrapped tight as a tout’s mac,

 

heels driving, toeclaws gouging, deep.

Stones into bread, miracle, power:

 

to and fro on the hot, disregarded earth,

the serpent floods his venom sacs:

 

aware that venom turns to medicine

in the healer’s hands.

 

Hopeful of success or failure,

he waits in the desert for the healer.